


It's Never Too Late (To Leave Old Pictures in the Past)

by SociiallyDiisoriiented



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Lemon, M/M, Past, Pictures, Pirates, Redemption, Romance, Rough Sex, Smut, Trafficking, blowjob, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociiallyDiisoriiented/pseuds/SociiallyDiisoriiented
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver had never expected to work for the Ministry. After Hogwarts, spurned by his lover and rejected by the Quidditch pro-league, he turned to alcohol and gratuitous sex. Oliver had never expected to apply to the new sky Auror division, to enjoy the work and find himself moving on. Of course, Oliver had never counted on meeting his past there, of all places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Never Too Late (To Leave Old Pictures in the Past)

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for a challenge contest on fanfiction.net forums. I had to work with the prompts Pirate and "No, this is Patrick"
> 
> beta'd by the wonderful luvsanime02 on the same site :)

Oliver Wood had never planned on working for the Ministry. He'd had grander plans, which included a broom, fame and Puddlemere United. Unfortunately, his zeal for the game had not transcribed into unmatched talent, and despite being an above-average player at Hogwarts, in the big leagues he hadn't even made the cut for the reserve.

Oliver saw the recruitment brochure when he was at an ultimate low, in one of those shady bars on the bad side of Diagon Alley he'd have never imaged setting foot in until his hopes and dreams were brutally crushed as efficiently as if a Bludger had been sent spinning their way.

The brochures were stacked at the very edge of the bar. Although stacked was the wrong word, more like sprawled, dispersed by a series of clumsy hands reaching for their drinks. Oliver was drunk and pathetic; he stared at the uninspiring white _Make A Difference_ font looped on top of a sparkly blackish-blue night sky. _Protect Our Night Sky_. _Stop Sky Piracy._

Oliver didn't even know about the trafficking system then, although when he thought of it later it did make sense, since it was impossible to control every broom entering or leaving the country. At that moment, however, he merely shoved the brochure disinterestedly in his back pocket. He went home with a tall, wide-shouldered brute dressed in green. He had a mean scowl and didn't talk much, and he shoved Oliver against the wall without warning the second they passed the threshold and pushed into him with minimal preparation. It burned and it hurt, but that was how Oliver liked it – he liked it for all the wrong reasons. When he was this drunk, when the lights were off, any brutish, dark-haired man could be him. Oliver closed his eyes and lost himself in the spinning darkness, the pressure of fingers on his hips. It was bittersweet, nostalgic; it was almost enough.

The next morning, disgusted with himself as always, Oliver cleaned up, fixed himself a hangover remedy, and opened the brochure. There was a short paragraph on the threat of sky piracy, its overlooked dangers and the pressing need for new recruits willing to stand up and fight and defend poor merchants losing millions of Galleons a year due to counterfeit goods being brought in by broom. The blurb arose no extreme sense of pity in Oliver, only a more prominent thudding in his head as he tried to focus on the words. He closed the brochure, took another hangover remedy, and slept the rest of the day away.

His funds were dwindling. That was his great and noble motivation. He did not particularly care about sky piracy, he did not particularly care about much these days, but his vault at Gringotts was depleting at a steady rate, and with no income to speak of Oliver slipped the brochure over and jotted down the address. He applied. A week later he was called in for a medical and fitness test. He, miraculously, passed the fitness exam, huffing and puffing by the end. He was twenty, but he had long ago abandoned his Quidditch form.

He was accepted into the program and shipped off to an intensive boot camp. He hadn't ridden a broom since receiving the news – thanks for trying, try again - and he was surprised at how easily the skill came back. He pushed off the ground with shaky feet – he hadn't had a drop of spirits since a few days before the medical exam – but the rush of the wind against his face, the vastness of the emptiness around him, quickly reminded him of what he'd lost. He'd missed this feeling: floating freedom.

There were no Quaffles, no Chasers zooming in toward him, no Bludgers to avoid. Instead, Oliver learned to attack, to chase traffickers down, and to fly with one hand on his broom, the other hand on his wand. He learned to cast spells as he was dodging others. The combination of concentrating on magic and flying was difficult at first. They learned to fly in formation, to protect themselves and each other as they tried to bring down the traffickers. Some had a hard time concentrating on the big picture, but Oliver had had years of practice through playing and watching Quidditch religiously. His mind was groggy at first, the habit hard-earned had been easily lost. Not lost, faded, and the more Oliver threw himself into the work, the sharper his mind became.

For two months, Oliver trained. He lived in a nine meter square room, shared facilities with macho men, hard-talking, straight-loving, narrow-minded men. These would be the kind of men Oliver would live with now, work with, protect, entrust his life to. He kept quiet about himself. When they went out, it was to conventional bars with loud music and women in scanty lingerie. Oliver told himself he didn't care, he was turning a new leaf. He hadn't ever disliked women anyway, not until after him. He learned to tolerate lacklustre fucking. He didn't care, because being able to fly was all that mattered.

After two months, Oliver was officially hired. He signed a contract. The quill was light in his hand as he stared down at his signature on the parchment roll. His chest soared and he grinned. He'd signed away his past.

Oliver's first year was a succession of modest successes – he arrested three traffickers. Two were let off with marks on their records, a common verdict in the business, but the third was big-time, and his sentence was life in Azkaban, the second strictest sentence; leaders had been sentenced to the Kiss in the past. Oliver felt his conscience twinge at the verdict. The man had cost some fat cats a lot of money, he knew, but none of the charges had been murder. A lifetime surrounded by Dementors... Oliver found it unjust. His superior told him not to get too involved. They're criminals, Oliver, this is how our system deals with outlaws.

At the end of his second year, Oliver was promoted. Instead of busting small-time crooks, Oliver worked with a team, planning strategies and tactics to get to the puppet masters, the string-pullers, the masterminds. If caught, these were the ones destined for the Dementor's Kiss. His team was welcoming, friendlier than the rookies. They introduced each other: Kaila, Jermia, Patrick, Tona, Matteo and Mohan. There were two women, Oliver noted. There had only been a handful of women at the camp; they'd had a tough time, and in the end only three were hired.

Oliver tried to fit in, though he kept his distance. Friendly did not necessarily mean more accepting if they found out. Still, he made an effort, and they put up with him trying to learn their names. He’d said good morning to Matteo when he came in once, only for the room to share smiles and his brunet coworker to correct him: _No, this is Patrick, I’m Matteo._ Right. Oliver would eventually get it, their names. He was turning over a new leaf.

Despite their best efforts, though, breakthroughs were few and far between; the bosses were too well covered, too cautious. Part of Oliver felt relieved when one of their missions turned out to be a wild nargle chase. It didn't take long for Oliver to connect the dots from the archives: most of the traffickers were former Slytherins. A few were from Gryffindor, a rare Ravenclaw was arrested, and Oliver had to go back seventy-five years before finding the first former Hufflepuff convicted of trafficking. He wondered if that said something about the segregationist system at Hogwarts, or if Slytherins were just dishonest inherently.

He dreamed, sporadically, of a Slytherin of his own, brawny and angry, who pinned him down and lay on him, breathing heavily in his ear, who gripped his wrist in a painful hold with one hand and brushed his hair back with the other, who pressed kisses on the cartilage of his ear. When Oliver woke, half-hard and half-crying, he couldn't remember if it was a memory or just a dream.

Then they began to make headway into one of their pile of cases. They made an arrest, a small-timer they thought, who ended up knowing more than they'd predicted and who didn't even need a drop of Veritaserum to begin sharing. They learned of a delivery, from a provider they'd been keeping an eye on to an elusive right-hand man they'd been unable to find out anything about.

The buoyant atmosphere was catching and Oliver found himself tagging along, for the first time, accepting an invite to go out for drinks with the team. After a few rounds, they dispersed, some going home, a few hitting the clubs. Oliver and another coworker – Matteo - hung back, and Oliver wasn't surprised when, after a couple more drinks, Matteo leaned in, pressing soft, hesitant lips to Oliver’s slightly parted ones.

It was not how Oliver liked it – he liked pressure, confidence. His coworker, though, didn't take without asking, and waited for permission. He was Oliver's height – short, for his tastes – a light brunet, with a slight build and demure laugh, cute in a fragile-looking way, hot if he'd been Oliver's type. He was unimposing, avoided confrontation, and only asserted his presence on a broom against outlaws. Everything was wrong with him, from the way his fingers lightly brushed Oliver's jaw to the way he waited for Oliver to open up to him before pushing for more.

Oliver didn't push him off, but relaxed and let the kiss go on. When it was over, Matteo didn't take him home, didn't fuck him roughly against the wall or on a counter. He smiled, bashfully – cheeks probably red if there was any light to see by – and chugged his drink.

He'd be a steady, reliable boyfriend, Oliver knew. The notion was such a strange one that it scared him. Oliver didn't know how to be a boyfriend. He knew how to fly, how to ambush and hex, and how to have one-night stands. He didn't know how to go in for the long haul.

The delivery was scheduled for two weeks later. Until then, the team planned their move to the minute. They practised formation in a secluded field on Ministry property. One night, Matteo asked Oliver to dinner. Oliver fidgeted throughout the whole meal as they talked about work, because when Matteo asked about his private life Oliver felt a surge of panic grip his throat and he steered the conversation to safer grounds. Afterwards, he kissed Oliver. It was a deep, excruciatingly slow kiss. Oliver knew Matteo was trying his best, trying to put Oliver at ease, make him comfortable, reassure him. Did Oliver really come off as a skittish, wounded animal? He doubted he could get used to this.

The delivery day loomed on the horizon, until suddenly, it was on them. Oliver felt calm and confident in the air. He knew everyone’s nerves were on edge – this was their big chance, for every one of them – but he trusted his coworkers; he trusted their instincts and their skills. They were cloaked in Disillusionment Charms, hovering just above the delivery spot.

The provider arrived right on time. They saw three dots in the distance swell and form into humans as they approached. The two men who were with the provider were hulks; how their brooms could hover with their weight on them was beyond Oliver. The provider had a bag slung over his shoulder. It was an unassuming bag, nothing suspicious about it; any other day any other Wizard would have thought this man was just on the way to work, to meet friends, to see family. Instead, Oliver knew it held over three thousand Galleons worth of stolen goods.

The official term for these men was traffickers, but Oliver had heard others in the department call them pirates as well. He'd looked up pirates – Muggle men who would attack merchant ships back in the days and steal all their goods. He supposed these men were the Wizard equivalent, flying brooms instead of navigating ships, and reselling their goods instead of hoarding them or burying them on some forsaken island in the middle of the Caribbean.

The buyer was late. Oliver knew his coworkers were beginning to grow restless beside him. He mentally checked himself to keep from moving or giving himself away, but Oliver could feel the impatience, the worry settling over him. The thought crossed his mind too – what if this was an ambush?

Then, there was a flash on the horizon, and suddenly there were people in front of the provider. Oliver blinked, too distracted to focus on the men at first. They couldn't have used a Disillusionment Charm, they'd have seen ripples in the sky as they moved... No, it must have been an invisibility spell of some sort. Oliver was vaguely impressed; that had never been an option they'd explored.

He knew his teammates were on edge now, ready to pounce. But they had to wait until the transaction was completed before they could make an arrest. Oliver observed the new arrivals. Five in all; power in numbers. The buyers had their own two hulks who looked vaguely familiar and uneasy on their brooms. There was a girl – that was a surprise, Oliver hadn't encountered many girl traffickers since he began – with dark hair. She was petite, hardly intimidating. She craned her neck, possibly looking around to make sure no one was coming their way, and Oliver saw her face: dark eyes, features that would look soft if there wasn’t something in her face that made her look so angry, so mean. Oliver felt a cold shiver run down his back. She had to be a powerful Witch to be on their crew. On her right, there was a face Oliver recognised from their case files, a slippery bastard they had suspected to be the connection between the boss and the lower-ranked traffickers. They could never catch him, though; he was cunning and he could run fast, preferring the dodge-and-run aspect over an old-fashioned duel, throwing most sky Aurors for a loop.

Oliver finally made his way up to the man at the head of their formation. He was dressed in a green robe (all five were, they may as well have charmed a banner to read ‘Slytherin’ in dancing silver letters over themselves), and he had a strong build, but he wasn’t a brick house like the two bodyguards at the back. Hovering behind him, Oliver couldn't see his features, but then suddenly he turned his head to speak to one of the hulks and Oliver saw his profile. His heart jumped to his throat.

It was him.

_Him._

His chest constricted, and he suddenly couldn't breathe properly. He felt his muscles constrict, and he wrung his hands against the handle of his broom. He wanted to fly over to Marcus and simultaneously punch him and kiss him.

How long had it been? _Five years_ , Oliver's mind informed him immediately, as though he'd compartmentalized a calendar away in his thoughts for this very day. Five years ago, give or take a few months or days, Marcus Flint had tossed Oliver aside like a broken wand, like what they'd done had meant nothing. Maybe it hadn't, to Marcus.

Oliver watched as Marcus laughed at something the provider's goon said. It was a cruel laugh, full of disdain, and it shouldn't have had this effect on Oliver but it did because it brought back memories, memories of empty classrooms and nooks in the walls, of secret passages, of awkward groping, rough kissing, warm bodies...

Oliver didn't realise he was grinding his teeth until he heard his coworker hiss his name. Oliver only barely restrained himself from looking over and breaking the charm. He felt flushed, felt adrenaline rushing through his body. The desire and the hate and the anger were all coming back, the dangerous triad that had made him lose all control when his dreams failed him. Without Quidditch, there had been nothing to stop Oliver's mad spiral of destruction. Quidditch had been his buffer. Obsessing about Quidditch had allowed Oliver to successfully ignore his broken heart. When Quidditch had failed him, well, the rest was history. Then he'd found a new purpose, this job, this team, and Oliver had gotten over it, had thought he'd managed to finally mend his heart.

He hadn't counted on ever seeing Marcus Flint again.

Matteo was hissing something else, whispering, _A_ _re you alright?_ Except he must have moved at the same time, causing a ripple, because a spell erupted from below and the next thing Oliver saw was his coworker's body free-falling.

It was Kaila who saved him, swooped down and levitated Matteo.

All hell broke loose then. The providers didn't stick around to fight; they fled the second they saw new unexpected and unwelcome people on the scene. Oliver's other teammates were too busy avoiding hexes and curses from the buyers to chase them down.

For a few moments, Oliver couldn't react. He took in the chaotic scene before him, still shrouded in the Disillusionment Charm. The goons were quickly incapacitated. They fell from their brooms – from below Kaila would cushion their fall so they wouldn't die. They'd need them for the trial.

Oliver watched as Marcus immediately flew in front of the woman. She was holding her own, shouting out hexes and deflecting ones coming her way. Jealousy stabbed Oliver in the chest before it dawned on him – Marcus was playing the human shield, but he was also delivering curses. He wasn't aiming to injure, he was intent on incapacitating - permanently.

Oliver sensed the spell coming before Marcus shouted it. Maybe there was something about Marcus' face, the intent, the focus, but Oliver just knew and this snapped him into action. He propelled his broom forward and raised his wand. He shouted a hex at his own teammate just as the words _Avada Kedavra_ left Marcus' lips. Oliver's hex knocked Patrick off his broom, and the green energy from the curse flew through the air where his body had been just seconds ago. Mohan reacted immediately, casting _Aresto Momentum_ on Patrick and levitating him back up to his broom.

Oliver's breathing was laboured. He could feel Marcus' gaze on him, the sudden intruder in the fight. He only reluctantly turned his head. There was recognition on Marcus' face, in his tightened lips and smooth brow. But that was all Oliver could read of his expression. His own body felt heavy, too heavy for the broom. He was stunned in place as efficiently as if Marcus had hexed him. Nothing was stopping him from firing the killing curse at Oliver and ending his existence now.

Except Oliver's teammates were not as mesmerized as Oliver, and a curse would have hit Marcus in the chest if the woman behind him hadn't reacted promptly. Oliver felt something in him loosen at that. Maybe he had some effect on Marcus after all. Then, his gut twisted in guilt. That fact should not give him so much satisfaction. He was over Marcus, he had been for nearly two years now.

The woman said something to Marcus and they both lifted their wands. Expecting another wave of curses, Olive lifted his hand, a defensive spell already on his lips. Instead, the two suddenly disappeared with a loud _crack_. A third sound diverted Oliver's attention – the fifth member of their party, holding his own against Tina this whole time, immediately Apparated.

Oliver felt rather stupid, not having seen that coming. His teammates flew toward him. Patrick stopped and hovered beside Oliver, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed and said thank you. Oliver smiled tightly but didn't particularly feel like he deserved to be thanked.

On the ground, Matteo had regained mobility. No one commented on his disturbance which had revealed his location and botched the whole operation. Disillusionment Charms were not infallible and they all knew mistakes could happen. Oliver couldn't bring himself to look at Matteo in the eyes when he felt his face turn to him. Thankfully, Matteo appeared to hesitate and then thought better of it.

The mission wasn't a complete bust, thanks to the two bodyguards they had managed to apprehend. They would be taken to the Ministry and locked up for the time being. Then, they would be questioned.

Two teammates took the prisoners and the rest of them were free to go. Oliver Apparated home before any of his coworkers could come closer to question him or worry over him. Just before he Apparated Oliver saw Matteo turn his way again, about to say something this time, but then Oliver was gone. When he landed at his front door, Oliver felt a wave of relief at having avoided the conversation. Oliver couldn't face him right now. Instead, he slammed the front door behind him and immediately sunk to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

He saw Marcus again in his mind's eye, and it was like a giant magnetic force was pulling Oliver towards him. He relived the scene in his mind, and all he could see again and again was Marcus, in more detail now that his life was not in danger. Oliver noticed how he had wider shoulders. He'd always been brawny, but there was something mature in his form now, like he’d filled out in all the places he'd been lacking in as a teenager.

And the spells he'd known... Oliver's mind was spinning. Had Marcus always been a talented spellcaster at school? Oliver knew he'd failed a grade, but there was a dichotomy between being talented at casting spells and being diligent in schoolwork, being punctual to class, handing in assignments on time, respecting the teachers... Oliver was ashamed when it dawned on him that he didn't know. He had never asked Marcus how he was doing in class, how his assignments were coming along. He knew Marcus hadn’t been respectful, but that was all he knew... That was all that had mattered to Oliver, then.

He let his head fall against the door... and nearly jumped out of his skin when the resultant thud sounded louder and clearer than expected. He froze; he imagined his own heart hesitating to beat. The noise repeated, twice, even louder.

Oliver scrambled to his feet. He realized, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it could be Matteo checking up on him – the last thing Oliver wanted right then – but he unlocked the door and violently pulled it open anyway.

It was Marcus. Of course it was, standing on his welcome mat, crowding his doorway.

“Oliver.”

 

***

It's just his name, but it's _his_ voice, and something breaks in Oliver. He doesn't want this, he suddenly thinks – no, he wants it, but he realizes the toxin for what it is. Hastily, he goes to slam the door in Marcus' face, but Marcus is quicker. He blocks the door and barges in, only then allowing the door to slam shut behind him.

He crowds Oliver up against a wall. Oliver can feel his wand burning a hole in his pocket but he doesn't reach for it. He lets Marcus pin him in place without even touching him. Their bodies are inches apart; he can feel Marcus' breath on his cheek, and he can almost feel the rising of his chest against his as he breathes. Oliver is already hard. He has never felt more aware of the present than now.

He thinks Marcus is going to hit him, then either pull out his wand and end him or flip him over and fuck him. Oliver thinks it doesn't matter which he does, the outcome for him will be the same.

But Marcus does none of those things. He just stands, his head lowered until he's almost kissing Oliver's neck, but he's not touching him at all, and that's more unbearable than anything.

“She's the one we're after, isn't she?” Oliver finally says, because the silence is killing him and if he doesn't say something he'll reach out and touch Marcus, and that would be worse than anything.

He feels Marcus tense, his breath against Oliver's neck comes quicker and softer.

“That's why you were protecting her.” Then another thought dawns on Oliver as he recalls that dark hair and those dark, piercing eyes. “Who is she to you?”

Marcus leans in closer, silently telling – warning – Oliver to stop. The fabric of their robes brush, and Oliver can feel the heat emitting from Marcus' body. He doesn't need Marcus to reply because he knows, and it changes everything. Irrationally, Oliver hates him for it. Because it was easier to move on when he thought he was coming to terms with the fact that Marcus hadn't cared for him and tossed him aside. How is he supposed to cope with knowing Marcus hadn't had a choice?

Oliver feels his heart break all over again. “Marcus...”

Then, suddenly, Marcus is pulling away and instinct makes Oliver reach out to stop him. Marcus slaps Oliver's hand away and grabs the collar of his robes forcefully, nearly pulling Oliver off his feet. They stare at each other for a few seconds. Oliver's heart is hammering against his chest and his senses are on high alert. He can feel Marcus' erratic pulse against his fingers, that are gripping Marcus’ wrists, he can see Marcus' lips pressed tightly in what could be hate or anger or disgust, but he also sees how his eyes are flickering, moving uncertainly across Oliver's face, down to his lips and up again.

Oliver could easily break the hold if he wanted - it's rough but not particularly strong - but he doesn't. At least this way Marcus is touching him.

Then, Marcus pulls him forward and slams their faces together. Their foreheads almost collide painfully but instead they just bump noses and teeth. Marcus shoves him back a few feet against the wall and then he's finally _touching_ him, pressing his entire body up against Oliver's, pinning him down with the brute strength of his body and kissing him with lips, tongue and teeth. Oliver's hands weave into his hair, holding him in place.

Oliver doesn't know how long they go at it, violently kissing like they want to injure each other and then lap at the wounds. His erection throbs painfully every time Marcus bites his lips, and he can feel Marcus' own erection pressing against his thigh, but there's no friction.

Finally, Marcus pulls away, panting hard and catching his breath. His lips are swollen and bruised from where Oliver kissed him. Oliver tastes a hint of blood in his own mouth. Marcus stares at him with dark, dilated pupils. Then, he brings a hand up and cups Oliver's face. The gesture is surprisingly gentle, not something Oliver ever remembers Marcus being. His dream comes back to him in a flash, and he can't push away the image of Marcus lovingly tucking Oliver's hair behind his ear. That's what it had been, Oliver realises suddenly, loving.

When Marcus leans in again, he presses his lips to Oliver's gently. A very different sensation sends prickles down Oliver's spine. His whole body suddenly feels more sensitive, more vulnerable. There's a palpable tension in the air that wasn't there moments ago. Marcus’ lips are still against his; he's not asking for permission, Oliver knows, but he's giving Oliver a chance to back out. Oliver moves his lips, pressing back, and it's all the answer Marcus needs. He wraps an arm around Oliver's waist and pulls him flush against his chest as he deepens the kiss. There are no teeth this time, and his tongue doesn't viciously wrap itself around Oliver's. It seeks his out, caresses it. His lips close against Oliver's and then open again, a repeating cycle of a passionate but gentle kiss. Oliver hadn’t known such a kiss could send so much feeling coursing through his body. Even his toes tingle with sensation.

Marcus' free hand lifts up Oliver's robes, pulls down his pants, and wraps around Oliver's straining erection. Oliver gasps and moans; other than heavy breathing and the smacking of lips, it’s the only sound either of them has made in minutes.

Oliver scrambles to reciprocate the gesture. He can already feel heat pooling in the bottom of his stomach, feel his balls constrict with a pleasure that's almost too strong to draw out. Marcus is heavy and thick in his hands, but familiar. Oliver would never have imagined years ago how much holding Marcus' dick in his hand could calm him down, but it does.

Marcus strokes him, and they quickly fall into a steady rhythm. It's like the last five years never happened, like it's just another weekend at Hogwarts. Except it's not just another weekend and they're not at Hogwarts. This time, Marcus isn't about to flip him over and tease him until Oliver has to cry and beg Marcus to enter him and jerk him off. This time, Marcus isn't twisting Oliver's arm behind his back until he falls to his knees and takes him in his mouth. This time, Marcus is holding him in a gentle but firm fist, pumping him steadily, brushing his thumb over Oliver's slit and making him shiver with pleasure. This time, Marcus kisses Oliver until Oliver finally shudders and coats Marcus' fingers with hot cum. And this time, Marcus doesn't wipe his hand all over Oliver's robes, but instead brings it up to his own mouth and licks his fingers clean, his eyes burning into Oliver's as he does.

Oliver closes his eyes at the sight of Marcus tasting him, his head spinning. He's so giddy on pleasure he doesn't even have to think before he's dropping to his knees, lifting Marcus' robes up and taking him into his mouth. Oliver hasn't sucked a guy off since Marcus, but the mechanics come back to him immediately. He remembers how Marcus likes him to scrape his teeth lightly up and down his shaft, the way he likes Oliver to press his tongue hard against the slit and to suck on his head like it's one of those fizzing whizzbees Oliver used to be so crazy about. It's not long before Oliver feels Marcus twine fingers in his hair and suddenly start to snap his hips forward toward Oliver's mouth. Oliver almost gags and pulls away, but he remembers at the last minute how he used to relax his throat without opening his mouth any wider. He lets Marcus fuck his mouth until he pushes in one last time and comes deep. With his throat opened, Oliver can swallow easily, and he sucks the last beads of cum off of the head before Marcus pulls out.

He watches, still kneeling, as Marcus puts himself away and pulls his robes back down. Oliver’s throat burns, no longer used to the abuse, but he hasn't felt this good, this satisfied, in, well, five years. Instead of pulling him up, Marcus does something that nearly startles Oliver out of his stupor, he kneels down in front of him.

They stare at each other. Oliver has the sudden urge to crawl over to Marcus and curl up against his chest. He even thinks Marcus may hold him there. But he doesn't, so he'll never know. Instead, he stays quiet until finally it's Marcus who speaks first.

“Leaving you was the hardest decision I ever had to make.”

The confession, the emotion laced in the words, the way Marcus averts his eyes when he speaks, strikes Oliver dumb. He wants to cup Marcus' face and kiss him softly all over. For so long he resented and hated Marcus for how he had treated him. Never once had he considered the possibility that the decision had been just as tough for Marcus.

When Marcus finally turns back toward him, he looks so young, so vulnerable. His mouth twitches downward. Oliver has never seen Marcus in pain before.

“She's the only family I have,” he says.

“She's going down,” Oliver says, softly. “Eventually, we'll get her.”

Marcus smiles, ruefully. “I know. I mean, I never thought so before, but now with you on their team, I know it's inevitable.”

The compliment makes Oliver want to cry. Maybe Marcus senses this, because he says, “You won't join me.” It's a question, but not a question, like he knows the answer but can't help but hope against the certainty.

Oliver shakes his head. He leans back until his butt is on the floor and pulls his knees tightly against himself. This is the breakup they should have had years ago, he realises. Although if Marcus had told him about his sister in seventh year, Oliver isn't sure he would have let Marcus go alone. If his seventeen year old self had known Marcus loved him, maybe, just maybe that would have overridden his dreams of Quidditch.

Suddenly, Oliver is overwhelmed with gratitude for how Marcus acted at the end. After years of hatred, even after his downfall into promiscuity and alcohol binging, Oliver is thankful. Marcus gave him a shot at his dream. He didn't make Oliver choose between them.

He goes to Marcus then and kisses him, hoping the kiss will convey his feelings and the gratitude Oliver knows he can never express aloud. _Thank you for being the bad guy. I love you. I love you._

Marcus holds him and kisses him back. When they break apart, he stands, and then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

 

**

The musclemen they arrested know next to nothing, and the case is filed as another dead end. The two have enough on their record to sentence them to three years in Azkaban, but when they're released Oliver knows they'll return to Marcus and his sister.

The day after their encounter, Oliver goes to work feeling like a different person. The certainty of his doomed love somehow doesn't break him. Instead, for the first time, Oliver finally admits his feelings for Marcus to himself and embraces them instead of rejecting them. It's strangely soothing. He tells Matteo thanks but no thanks, he's not ready to commit. He thinks, hopes, that one day he'll meet another brute who happens to be a decent, loving soul, but in all honesty he's not holding his breath.

Oliver throws himself into his work with a new fervour. He doesn't tell his team about Marcus' sister, how she is the head honcho they'll need to be careful of - let them figure that one out by themselves – but he promises himself that when the time comes and they meet again, he won't hold anything back, even if it means Azkaban or the Kiss. Oliver knows Marcus wouldn't want him to.


End file.
